


Grindcore Sanctuary

by TheNoiseMaker



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence, possible sensitive material
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 16:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNoiseMaker/pseuds/TheNoiseMaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prison AU. IDW-ish. When Drift is abducted and thrown into a new world of imprisonment, he must quickly adapt to survive. He must face every threat, every situation head on, lest he crack and let Grindcore take him over before he finds a way out. Luckily, he discovers that survival doesn't need to be achieved alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grindcore Sanctuary

"Stop him!"

"Get the fragger!"

"Don't let him get away!"

Shrieks pierced through the noise, the colored wave of mechs and femmes being pushed aside as a chase ensued through the dense market space. The crowded area of the market docks bustled, loud voices meddled against each other, only heard by one beside the owners. Pairs of optics turned swiftly to the chase that had rushed past them, the bearers able to grab a quick glance before they were left behind to continue with their own affairs.

The white mech was running, pedes pounding on metal, thighs at the top edges of their performance levels. They were after him; again. The Bleeders had remembered him from before, pointing him out through the crowd of bots at the energon market strip.

"Feisty," the spotter had said pointedly, as though that were a codename. The mech had tried to keep the crowd between them, turning, twisting and dodging bots and vendors but the Bleeders were too good, circling around him until he had no choice but to bolt.

Not again, not again. The phrase pummeled through his processor—a tempo of desperation.

A striker zipped in close, an electro-baton crackling, swiping at the back of mech's thighs. He whirled, a backhand fast connecting with the armed mech's face. A satisfying, sickening crunch muffling a howl of pain and he had broken free, spinning down the side corridor.

Temporary victory, at best, he thought. With his processor scrambling with panic as he heard the heavy strides of the Bleeders behind him, echoing loud like ill omens. It was a matter of time before they had him again, before he was pinned, braced on his back, arm vised out as the rest of his frame was pinned by the Bleeder who knelt on top of him, leeching out the pumping energon straight out of his chassis.

He could already feel the foreshadowing breath of the Bleeders on him, could already see the leeches bland concentration as he tested the sample, measuring his energon, setting a price to his pain.

The runner shoved the thought from his mind, skidding recklessly around a corner. His thighs were screaming for him to stop and rest, worn through their lubricating grease, heating with each stride. He'd slow soon, forced by mechanical failure and they'd get him. Weak… Weak.

He hated this.

He burst blind around the next corner, head bulled down, concentrating only on getting one more step ahead, between him and the Bleeders.

Alleys were his best chance, as long as he didn't round in on a dead end. But he knew this place perfectly, almost. His processor automatically drew a map, tracing which directions were best to take, which to avoid, which to cut through.

Hard slaps of metal on metal rumbled through his audios, like a wave assault, trying to distract him from his planned escape.

No. Concentrate. It'll save you.

Harsh intakes joined the music of running pedes and the sound of screeching metal as the mech turned sharply. He zeroed in on his pursuers' pede-falls, but his audios picked up the softening sounds of what was behind him. He didn't dare dwell on it. No, he needed to concentrate on running. Survive. He could think about what was happening later.

Shouts, curses, loud enough to cover up the multiple pedesfalls. He cursed himself as well. If he had the space—frag, if he had the energon, he could just transform and leave the Bleeders to the dust. Maybe it was some subconscious tactile plan to lure them here; they had the energon, but the group lacked the space more than he did.

The explicit words soon downed into a buzz, going higher and lower with the tone of their voices. And then—

Lost. Quiet.

The mech risked looking back, a quick glimpse. He saw no one behind him. Did he really lose them? That easily?

Perhaps he thought it was easy because he wasn't being pinned down, sucked of his own lifeblood, waiting for what seemed like an eternity for them to leave him, let him crawl to the nearest, darkest corner, and curl into a tight ball, tight enough to feel like the world couldn't no longer see him, could no longer hurt him.

Invisible.

But today would not end like those other days. He didn't stop though, even after the only sounds became his own harsh run and the panting of his intakes. He didn't stop until he was in actual familiar scenery.

Yes. Familiar gutters. Home.

His optics scoured the area. The dirty ground, each spot and grimed corner a familiar sentiment to him. He slowed, one of his pedes idly kicking a small can of worthless, forgotten garbage. If he had the calmed, thoughtful will to push aside his more vehement, instinctual self he would have probably made a comparison of what had occurred today, what he was doing to that piece of garbage. But his systems were still revved slowing down gradually, but the adrenaline was hanging around, as though it were a defence mechanism, ready for any surprises.

"Drift."

The white mech turned, jumping back, arms raised and ready to strike.

Dimmed, tired optics stared down at him, the maroon, spider web-cracked lenses fixated on him. Drift stared back, his processor finally registering no threat. He sighed, dropping his arms and straightening his pose.

The other figure, a larger, dark blue flyer with a paintjob peeled and rusted, cracked, and frame painfully grounded by lack of energy, looked around. Drift followed the others optics as well, looking around both surveying the space for any enemies, none. Simply other guttermechs sitting around, walking mindlessly, some desperately seeking any pay on their own while others waited at corners in hopes for a chance to earn some credits by other bot’s will.

"Where were you?" A question with no answer needed, asked only to merely rid themselves of the plaguing silence.

Drift huffed, drawing his optics back to the flyer. "Out."

He got a long stare. Drift vented harshly, a whistle of air racing through his frame. "Look, Sunwing. I did what needed to be done."

Sunwing shook his helm, optics rolling. "Not the point. Bleeders see you?"

"Saw me, yeah." Drift frowned, crossing his arms. "But lost them. They're nowhere near here."

Sunwing stared again. Drift narrowed his optics, glaring. "Quit staring."

"Don't glare."

"I wouldn't be if you stopped. Staring."

Sunwing shook his helm again, a very noticeable—and rather annoying—habit. The larger beckoned with his hand to follow, silent now, as he walked forward. Drift turned, watching him walk away for a moment before walking as well, following the larger mech. He was just a pace behind Sunwing and in these moments where he didn't want to talk to the bot, he found himself observing everything. No, not staring like Sunwing would say if he turned around and caught him, but observing.

Even when he first saw Sunwing, the flier’s wings were drooping, flat against his back, a symbol of being grounded. He thought that was just the way he was framed. But he soon found out Sunwing simply lost whatever love he had for the sky, and therefore lost any care he held for his wings. Now a vestige and burden, he just wanted to survive and rationing his flights to nothing to save whatever energon he had seemed to suffice for him. It was said that once, Sunwing had even requested a medic cut off his wings, be finally rid of them. The medic was naturally shocked and refused to do the procedure, taken aback that he wanted to get rid of what was usually a Seeker's most prized part of their frame.

The two walked in silence for an extended period of time, not calculated by either. They enjoyed the silence, just… walking. It meant they weren't running for their lives again. Drift's down casted optics turned up when he sensed Sunwing move, his big shadow no longer cloaking him. He turned likewise, a mimic of movements now.

The shelter they neared was a small broken space. It was not a home. Slag, it didn't even qualify to be an establishment. It was just broken walls put together to form a small cube and luckily, with a roof that had very few holes. And that was a lot for bots like them to even say. Not that they would, lest they'd get a whole mob of the homeless inside. But the entrance was easily hidden behind thick, rusted sheets of forgotten factory metal, too heavy for an average mech to lift without help.

Luckily Sunwing wasn't quite your average mech. Big hands grasped each side of a sheet of metal and pushed it aside, then another and then the third, there was enough of the hole in the wall for Drift to squeeze through, before Sunwing got rid of the last two and entered, slowly and carefully setting the barriers back in place.

Now, entrapped in a safe place, both mechs sighed, letting go of their tension.

"Damn," Drift muttered, turning. Spotting the blemished chair, he made a beeline for it, and all but crashed onto it, his helm hanging back against the back of the chair. Sunwing turned just in time to see Drift collapse, and shook his helm.

"How'd you do anyway?" He asked as he slowly walked to the only other chair, plopping onto it. The chair creaked in protest but held for him, as if the non-sentient object knew that flyer needed it at the moment and didn't want to fail him.

Drift looked down at himself. A command initiated, the smaller mech's subspace opening and he reached it, plucking two smaller-than-your-average sized cubes out and placing them on the table.

Sunwing nodded this time around, of approval no doubt. The volume of the cube usually could not suffice for a mech his size, but he and Drift like most other guttermechs, learned to adapt, their energon reserve tanks somehow naturally being able to slow down the consumption rate.

The cubes were cracked open, the sound ricocheting about the small home, and the mechs drank in silence, simply concentrating on the sweet lifeblood warming their systems.

"Pretty good," Sunwing commented, looking down at his cube. His wrist rotated softly, and red optics watched the bubbles floating about in the liquid stir.

"Yeah," said the smaller mech, who had downed most of his ration in one swig. "Definitely worth a chase this time 'round."

"How many?"

"Like... I don't know. Three?" Drift paused, looking down at his cube in thought. "Wonder what would've happened if I had them let catch me."

Sunwing went back to shaking his helm. "Drift, you know what would have happened. They would have held you down will siphoning your energon, just like every other time they catch one of us."

Drift immediately shook his own head, not that he was picking up habits, hopefully. "No, I don't think so—at these not this time. They're—"

"Bleeders don't kidnap people," Sunwing interrupted, tired of the mech's theories.

Drift's red optics dimmed and he turned quiet. The flyer across him watched just as silently, sipping at his ration of the day with a quiet, subdued elegance.

"They're probably the ones that took Gasket," he murmured.

"Bleeders don't kidnap people," Sunwing repeated, softly to where it sounded like a sigh, and tired, not wanting to think of it.

"Then who did, dammit! Who did?"

Drift couldn't let it go. No matter how many times Sunwing would say it, the thought would claw at him, burn him, like a salted wound, unable to go away.

He'd seen it. He knew Sunwing saw it too. People like them, the guttermechs, the homeless, those without purpose, were disappearing. The streets were slowly, ever so gradually fading in population to where one passing by wouldn't even notice. Less beggars, less thieves, gone off the face of the planet, it seemed. It was all very unsettling, for any guttermech or femme.

"I don't know, Drift," Sunwing said smoothly. "If I did, don't you think I would have gone out and gotten Gasket back?"

Drift glared at him. Yeah, he probably would have. But then again so would have he. If he knew just who did it, then it'd be smooth sailing from there. But he didn't know, and that only made him angry, useless now.

But if anybody were to be a scapegoat, it would obviously be the government, the high class, getting rid of the garbage. But... no, Drift wasn't thinking that. He had this nagging feeling that the kidnappings were more intimate. The Bleeders knew the general location of any guttermech colony. They merely have to search through the slums; it would be easy for them to catch one and bag them. And they could have their priced vessels nearby to siphon any time they wanted.

And that was the sole theory of Drift in the matter of his missing friend. And if they weren't careful, they would be next.

Drift spent the next joors in the safe hole, merely a company to Sunwing by then. They talked, they argued of course, and at the end they simply sat next to each on the floor in silence, as if they were taking in everything around them.

Though there was nothing. All there was the rusted center piece of the chairs and table, taking up a lot of the space of the squared space. It made the place seem stuffier, one could to the point of claustrophobia. In truth, they were just relishing another day's survival and hopefully, as the night grew on, the next day as well.

But Drift never stayed. When the two moons were high in the night he had Sunwing push the barricades to the side, and he'd walk into the dirty alley, taking Sunwing's words of caution with him.

Drift liked the night especially when they were quiet. Silence buzzed in his audios perfectly, there but not intruding on his thoughts. Maybe he was thinking too much nowadays, though.

Drift sighed, rubbing his temple.

He used to never think at all. Just steal and fight and recharge the day's stress off. And hide. He did a lot of hiding when he was trying to find a place to rest for the night.

His red optics pointed upward, his pedes slowing down. He was graced by the sight of the clear sky, miraculously free of smog, and cluttered with the presence of stars. He wondered once what it would be like to go up there and see the galaxy. The silent, blissful void; not be stuck down here where everything was dirty and crowded.

If he could just reach up and touch one, one of the stars, something so pure it was near blinding, if he could grab one and hold it, just for himself, as a light in this world to guide him.

He had lost his light once already, his Gasket.

Drift eventually forced himself to look down. It hurt to look at the stars now. Damn thinking. Maybe that's why he did it. He deserved some penance for letting his friend get kidnapped—or whatever it was that happened.

The white mech plopped down in his usual recharge spot. A good hiding place where the shadows overcame his stark white paint job and he'd be able to see everything else around him. His corner was big enough to curl up in, which he did every day to make himself smaller, less noticeable. And… the stars. A perfect view of the sky.

It felt like a dampener now, a cool sheet washing over him, because he knew they were there, and all he had to do was make the mistake of looking up. Drift drew his knees up to his chassis, his crossed arms resting upon them.

Don't look up.

Drift's processor bustled, but in the end, he managed to bow his helm, curling his arms around his face so he saw nothing but blackness, and fell into recharge.

 

Movement.

Drift's audios were the first to online, while his sluggish systems took a bit longer. But they eventually jerked online all together, creating a splitting headache, his vision still blurred with static from the sudden force out of recharge.

He didn't know what was going on only that he was fighting against something. Or someone. No, more than one. Drift swung his gripped arm, his vision catching his hand punching something. A shout of pain, a quick curse following.

By the time he regained his senses, something crashed into his helm. Back into the swimming mess of his mind, Drift stumbled, falling onto the cold ground. He felt hands on him, he could not see them and the last thing he had been able to register, before the palpitating blackness of unconscious came rolling over him, was that he was not feeling the effects of energon drainage.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone ^^
> 
> Obviously with this being my first fanfic here, you all can tell I'm new here. But i feel especially good with this idea of mine and will try my best to update it!
> 
> And also obviously, since this is a prison fic, this will NOT be about fluff and rainbows. This story will contain graphic scenes of violence, rape/non-con, suicides, police/guard abuse, attempted breakouts, betrayal and the like. So hopefully you are a strong enough reader to handle that ^^


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